No 89
by dietplainlite
Summary: A companion piece to "All You Ever Wanted At Just the Wrong Time."


**Author's Note: I do not own these characters. Yada yada. This is a one shot, but it is a companion piece to and occurs in the same universe as "All You Ever Wanted At Just the Wrong Time."**

Even when he's careful to only touch the filter, the steam always dampens the paper, anyway. But he loves to smoke in the bath, and he loves his baths to be near scalding. The paper makes a satisfying hissing sound as he inhales, and the smoke wafts in patterns distinct from the steam, yet blending in places where their density happens to match. His skin is red (fingers nicely wrinkled [osmosis—how much of him has now blended with the water in the tub?]) and sweat beads above his lips. But he still adds more hot water as it cools, manipulating both the stopper and the spigot with his toes. He sometimes gets it a bit too full, and his movements cause water to slosh over the sides faster than it can be carried away by the overflow drain. But mostly he is still. The only movement his right arm, bringing the cigarette to his lips and away, flicking the ash on the floor to mix with the soapy puddles. There is always the bath oil, the same his mother used in his childhood tub. And sometimes he creates horns with his hair with the thick suds of his shampoo before rinsing it out. But right now he is thinking, and smoking. He thinks of his university days when, instead of a neat and elegant Dunhill he often smoked a hastily rolled spliff, though almost always more tobacco than marijuana. He thinks about the American girl—a backpacker—he'd met one weekend during festival season. She'd been fascinated by the way the English roll spliff, and in return for teaching her, she had dropped acid with him, placing the tiny square of paper on his tongue like the body of Christ and running with him through town and countryside all night, collapsing in a field at dawn to watch the clouds dance, and not thinking about the physics and chemistry of them once.

He thinks about the woman in the other room right now. The one who had fulfilled his request for Dunhills, a new dressing gown, toiletries (bath essence, soap, shampoo, shave soap, aftershave [all Floris No. 89] razor, mirror.) Maybe not the best thing, sending her to Harrods, but now her curiosity is sated, at least regarding one thing about him. She has always wanted to ask what fragrance he wears, but has never worked up the nerve. (He'd once overheard her telling a coworker that he smelled of marmalade and spices. [Turns out she's an avid baker, and bakes when she's bored, so there's one new thing he knows about her]) She'd weakly protested that she couldn't go to Harrods dressed as she was. He told her that she can go anywhere she wants dressed however she wants. The key is to just believing you belong there. But that a shirt fresh from the package can always help when inner confidence fails. There are plenty of fresh, plain shirts where they are. But nothing worn in or familiar. Nothing remotely like either of their homes.

She didn't talk about how it went, but she was not overly flustered when she returned. She simply sat one carrier bag on the coffee table and continued to the kitchen with two larger ones. (Had she got a hamper? Yes she had. Cheeky way to spend Mycroft's money.) As she was rummaging around the cupboards, he saw her sniff her wrist and smile, but turned away so she wouldn't know that he noticed. These days, he is desperate to never embarrass her.

Now, he imagines her at the fragrance counter, slightly nervous but slowly realizing that she's not going to be ousted from the place. Choosing the items, spraying a bit of the cologne on her wrists. Saying the items are for her brother? Boyfriend? She wouldn't have said husband or fiance' since she's not wearing a ring. And she wouldn't have used her father in a lie. He suddenly has a desire to know what his fragrance smells like on her.

"Molly!" he calls. She has been puttering around the kitchen, and delightful smells are just starting to emanate from that direction. He hears her light footsteps before her voice at the door.

"Are you okay? Do you need anything?" Oh, he's worried her.

"The shaving things. I didn't bring them in with me."

"Oh. I'll—yeah I'll get it."

Realizing she will have to actually bring the bag in to him, Sherlock quickly turns on the bathtub's jets. They disturb the water enough that his nakedness is mostly obscured. He doesn't care—much—but knows she will be embarrassed, despite having seen him completely naked the first day they were here. He barely recalls it. It's in fact, excruciating for him, trying to dredge up memories of anything that happened after he said goodbye to John. He usually deletes things deliberately, and he has been thoroughly shaken by the idea that his mind has gone rogue and deleted very important events _for_ him. He's been ransacking every corner of his mind and has come up with bits and pieces. The only thing from the fall itself is a feeling of vertigo. When he remembers this, it makes him dizzy enough to have to sit down, or at least lean on something. There is the smell of blood. Molly's soft and urgent voice. A black town car. Her pale arms and hands as she scrubbed the blood from his hair. He had slept for nearly twenty four hours after and hadn't been able to form a full sentence for almost twenty four after that.

In the last seventy-two hours, things have improved, but while she was gone he'd found himself crying over the sight of her hair pins lying on the bathroom sink. Signs of life, someone living, things they leave behind, always thinking they will return. He is a ghost, and everything he has left behind at Baker Street is only serving to remind those who cared for him that he is gone. Are they packing it all away, yet? It has been five days. The more important things will go to Mycroft. The things he must have back.

But what about the little things? His comb, his favourite pen, the $500 chip from the Bellagio that he used to fiddle with sometimes while he was working out a problem, dancing it over his knuckles and rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger until the writing had all but vanished. He smiles as he remembers that trip. Sebastian Wilkes had convinced him to go to Vegas to play blackjack. Handed Sherlock a book about counting cards to read on the plane. Sebastian's friends had made bets on how long it would take him to get caught, but he never had. Because for him it wasn't about money, or winning the game, but about beating the dealer and the faceless goons behind the security cameras. He'd lost just often enough to not rouse suspicion, though the money he lost was never enough to put a major dent in the ever growing stack of chips. Once he was bored, he'd walked away with $20,000, which he'd given to Sebastian minus one $500 chip.

The last time he'd seen it, it had been sitting on the mantle next to his skull, the last night he'd been in his flat. He'd glanced at it and hoped that he and Mycroft had bet on the correct reaction from Moriarty.

He wonders what John will do with it. He'd never said anything, but he knew that John thought it bonkers that he so casually had a piece of plastic worth so much money lying around, and used it as nothing more than a worry stone.

There is a tentative knock on the door and she comes in, bringing the smell of blueberries and sugar with her.

"Sorry, I had to take the scones out of the oven. Here it is," she says, eyes averted, arm straight out, the carrier bag hanging from one finger.

"I've got the jets on, in case you couldn't hear?"

"Oh," she says, and looks him in the eye.

She looks weary, but as always there is something quietly lovely about her. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun—quite different from her usual fastidious ponytail. There are smudges of flour on her cheeks and on her jeans, which hang a bit loosely from her hips. The wrong size. It is no wonder Mycroft's people had got it wrong, considering how she always seemed to wear forty layers of clothing that were at least a size too large. At least the t shirt fits nicely. Though it reveals a tiny sliver of her abdomen above the baggy jeans, and—oh she had done laundry today. Those skull print pants (the waistband is peeking out above her jeans) had to have been the ones she was wearing when they arrived. (Unless she'd also spent Mycroft's money on new knickers. Cheeky indeed.) Everything provided for them here in the flat was plain and utilitarian. He smiles a bit and she looks down, following his gaze.

"Oh!" she says. She pulls the jeans up a bit and practically throws the bag on the little table next to the bathtub. She turns to leave and stops at the door.

"Will you be long? I'll make tea. And, well. I really would like some hot water this time for my shower, if you don't mind?"

"Just need to get rid of this," he says, gesturing to the scruff on his face, which was on the verge of becoming a full-fledged beard. She nods and closes the door softly behind her.

Two minutes later he calls her name again. When she comes in, he is the one with the averted eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"My hands," he says. "They're shaking too badly." That had been a bit of a problem since his death as well. She has noticed. He has seen her notice.

Molly gives him the most heart rending sympathetic look, with not a trace of pity, and sits on the edge of the tub. She reaches into the bag and withdraws the contents: shaving brush, shaving soap, razor, mirror. She lines them up with the precision she would her surgical tools, along with a flannel and a hand towel.

"I had to help my father, when it got bad. He liked a neat appearance, always. Even at the—end." She hands him the flannel. "I'm sure the steam has softened everything up but just to make sure, wet this and place it over your face while I do the soap thingy."

He does as she asks, and listens to her preparations. Opening the packet of blades, the squeak of metal on metal as she unscrews the razor and adjusts it. Wood on wood as she slides the lid off of the shave soap bowl. Wetting the brush under the sink faucet and working up the lather.

"My dad, he liked to use soap instead of shaving cream. But he had one of those funny mugs with a mustache on it. Good thing he was also old fashioned and used a safety razor or we'd be in trouble."

"He seems to have had a lot of sense," Sherlock says from beneath the flannel.

"Yes," she sighs.

She takes the flannel off his face, and strokes his beard, testing the length and judging whether it is softened enough to begin. He inhales deeply, and yes, his suspicions are correct. She is wearing his fragrance (traces of it linger even after her baking) and it does smell quite differently on her. A bit more woodsy. Less lavender. He resists the urge to grab her hand and bury his nose in her wrist.

"It'll take at least two passes, maybe three," she says, as she begins to lather his face. Her movements are deft and efficient, and her face is impassive, though she is not quite hiding all of her sadness at the memories this must be bringing to the surface.

She smiles—it doesn't quite reach her eyes—when he is lathered up, and reaches for the razor. He closes his eyes.

She is so gentle, and her breath smells of peppermint and she talks softly to him about how she'd first learned to help her father with his shaving when he had broken his arm when she was a girl. She'd only nicked him once, but she had cried about it for days, even though he'd told her over and over that it was just a scratch. And he'd trusted her to try again, and she'd never cut him after that.

After the first pass, she wipes his face and holds up the small mirror.

"Are you sure you want to go clean shaven? I think the scruffy look suits you."

"No, it itches. And—"

"Normalcy."

He stares at her. But yes, she cannot be in her morgue or lab, so she bakes and makes tea. His mind is committing mutiny, so he is wresting control of his body. He wonders how much longer he can have her. She is on leave of absence now (though it is technically a suspension—pending further investigation) but how long can it last? Will he be ready to finish Moriarty's game by the time she has to go back to the land of the living? He knows she is fretting about her cat, even though she has been assured he is being cared for. Will he be left to rattle around this flat, a shell of himself, when she's had enough?

"Stay," he says. She pauses in lathering up the brush.

"Sherlock, I'm here—"

"I know you are, now. But I was supposed to have gone on by now, days ago. To Dublin. And I can't even bear the thought of leaving this flat. And you'll have to go back to your life soon. You—you have to go to my funeral tomorrow for fuck's sake. I—"

Suddenly she drops the brush and bowl and before he knows it she is in the tub with him, fully clothed, straddling him. She takes his face in her hands (this seems so familiar) and presses her forehead to his.

"I am here. And I will not leave until after you have walked out that door to do what you need to do. Do you understand?"

He nods meekly then looks down. His eyes widen.

She looks down at her now transparent t shirt and laughs.

"Sod it, you've seen it all anyway," she says. She looks around her and laughs harder and he follows suit. They are laughing at the luxurious bathroom with this ridiculous tub. At the shaving soap that is now mingling with the ashy water on the floor. At the circumstances that have brought them here, playing this bizarre game of house. And as the laughter dies down, she gives him the sweetest of kisses, on the corner of his mouth.

"The thing is," she says, looking him square in the eye. "You're going to be okay. We all are. We have to be." She gives him another quick peck, this time on the end f his nose, and gets out of the tub. Water streams from her sopping clothes. She hands him a towel. "

"Now get out of this tub before you go completely pruney. I'll finish your shave tomorrow."


End file.
